Inkubus
by Josephine Sawyer
Summary: Since her first year, Tom Riddle has been a comforting memory in the back of her head - a scapegoat, someone to blame. But things are about to change.
1. The Joys of Martyrdom

A/N: Slightly darker than my usual stuff, but I like it anyway. The original idea was very different, and this has only been implemented thanks to many discussions onboard the S.S. Gin'n'Tonic at FAP. Let's see… Thanks to the shippers in general, but none in specific for this chapter, to Kavitha my lovely beta reader, and thanks in advance to anyone who reviews. 

_Inkubus_

Chapter 1: The Joy of Martyrdom

It was well known amongst the Slytherins that Blaise Zabini had "sacrificed herself for love" in her fifth year. The remainder of the school, professors included, was under the impression that Blaise had been pulled out for home schooling, which disproves Dumbledore's matter-of-fact statement that every secret of the students immediately became common knowledge on the Hogwarts grounds. There was even one secret that even the Slytherin house was not privy to: whom Zabini had fallen in love with in the first place, and why she had decided to lay down her life for him, her, or it.

Of course, most of the Slytherins feigned disinterest, and more than a few actually weren't interested, putting it off as a childish and Gryffindorish ploy. They fully expected to return from their summer holidays to see a very-much-alive Blaise Zabini on the Hogwarts Express at platform 9 ¾, passing of her 'death' as a momentary lapse of reason and descent into Gryffindorish qualities.

However, those closest to Blaise, like Pansy Parkinson, wondered. Pansy was in the best position of all to wonder about her friend's fate, as she was the only one to have read the farewell letter Blaise had left. Pansy had found it, just before the end-of-term tests, on Blaise's pillow. That had been the day that Blaise disappeared. 

_"If you are reading this," _it read, _"then I'm dead. Don't let anyone outside of the house know, and don't worry. I take my death as necessary to that which I love, and only vaguely regret that I couldn't see the world I will have helped to create. My parents know what I'm doing, they are proud of the honor I bring them for they will be first in the new order, and I will be remembered and thereby will live on in the hearts of all our followers. All his followers. I die so that he may live, knowing that I bring a greater power to the world through my death than I could possibly have done while alive, and proud of the little I have done to aid the cause. Remember me for what I was able to do in death, not for who I was unable to be in life. _

_"I, Blaise Zabini, being of sound mind and body, do hereby name Pansy Parkinson as my executor, and do entrust with her the execution of this document. To Ms. Parkinson I give my dark blue dress robes, as they always looked better on her anyway, and the sapphire earrings to match. To Millicent Bulstrode, I give my book on beautifying charms, she was wont to borrow it from me in life, and should take this opportunity now that I am dead, as well as my racing broom. To Draco Malfoy I give my prefect badge, he shall have to serve the office of two now… Everything else shall go to my parents, except for my schoolbooks, which I give to Tom Riddle, although he already has taken my life and therefore cannot ask for more."_

It was signed "_Blaise Zabini"_, in her handwriting and her own ink, and therefore clearly the work of Granger or some Ravenclaw. Honestly, the very notion that Blaise Zabini could be in possession of such un-ambitious characteristics as love, self-sacrifice, and honor was to fly in the face of the very fact that she was in Slytherin house. Pansy decided that it was worthy further investigation as she solemnly partitioned up her friend's belongings. She told each recipient that Zabini had sacrificed herself for love, died in the throes of passion, and various other horribly clichéd expressions. The other members of Slytherin House concluded that Pansy had read a few too many cheap romance novels before killing her friend off, but accepted the story nonetheless. 

It was summer before Pansy could investigate further, or confirm that everything had returned safely to the Zabini mansion. She still hadn't found this Tom Riddle who she had to give Pansy's school books to – darned heavy things they were, and Pansy had to carry them home with her when she left on the Hogwarts Express, which meant that she had nearly worked out her back from lifting the heavy bags without magic. Her parents weren't the sort to allow her to break petty regulations for the sake of convenience, too much rode on her doing well at Hogwarts for her to risk expulsion simply to allow her to do less work. Pansy knew that Malfoy mocked her behind her back, as he dumped his huge trunk onto the back of a house-elf, but she clenched her teeth and said nothing, because after all there was nothing she could say without losing all the ground she had made for her family.

Pansy organized a trip to the Zabini mansion, surreptitiously motivated by the need to give condolences and to ensure the execution of the will. 

The man who opened the door was certainly Blaise's father, but the man behind him was not recognizable as related to Blaise in any way, shape, or form. Pansy would have slammed the door shut to collect her thoughts, but her better sense prevailed, and she allowed herself to be led through the copious mansion. 

Who was this man? He appeared to be about her age, but she had never seen him around Hogwarts. To be allowed entrance into the Zabini mansion, he must either be a Slytherin or a Ravenclaw, and the school was not so large that Pansy couldn't keep track of the faces of those as whom she spend the majority of five years of her life in the same cold, dingy castle.  Which all just meant that he wasn't a Hogwarts student at all. But he surely hadn't graduated from Hogwarts more than five years ago, he looked in his mid-teens, not early twenties.

So far, he hadn't said a thing, and so all that Pansy could tell was the fact that she knew nothing. All in all, this was a bothersome situation for the girl, and she wished to remedy it. After all, she was no Millicent Bulstrode, willing to force through any problem with a few simple curses, or even her bare hands. She was Pansy Parkinson, who connived her way into people's good graces before hexing them in a blind alley. Perhaps not so effective at it as the alluring Blaise Zabini – the late, alluring Blaise Zabini – but more honest seeming for her small, flat nose, her mousy brown hair, and her filmy, distracted blue eyes. 

She was silent. Having explained the purpose of her visit, she sat and listened to the conversation of the two men. She hoped she could fade into the background, so as to absorb as much information as she could. However, all that she had absorbed was the stranger's name, Tom Riddle, when she found herself drawn into a conversation.

She had books for Tom Riddle.

But, of course, they were still sitting in her bedroom, idly collecting dust while Tom Riddle was without them. Who knows, maybe he wanted those books as much as she had a burning desire to get her hands on that blue dress. But Mr. Zabini had asked her a question, and the books were far away, at home, and there was nothing that she could do but get an address where she could find Mr. Riddle.

"What do they, at Hogwarts, think happened to Blaise?" Mr. Zabini had queried. Or something quite similar.

This was certainly not how Pansy had imagined her time at the Zabini mansion. She was supposed to gain information, not give it out. But there was only one answer to the question, and it was not silence. Pansy cleared her throat. "I told them," she began, calmly, "That Blaise had killed herself for love," she looked at the expectant look on Mr. Zabini's face, and she continued. "Of a cause. The Slytherin students, that is. The rest of Hogwarts thinks you took her out of school, sir."

At this, Mr. Zabini smiled, and dismissed Pansy.

No, no, NO. That wasn't at all how it was supposed to happen. Pansy still needed information, but she could hardly be so impolite as to continue listening when Mr. Zabini had already informed her that the will had been executed, and her reason for entry into the mansion was worn out. 

She left the room.

And promptly climbed the stairs to Blaise's bedchamber. What was a little spying between friends?

The bedchamber was much as described by Blaise on nights when the girls would reminisce. Pansy stood in the center, perusing the room and trying to find any sign of what had really happened to Blaise, any clue to the truth. 

There was none.

Pansy searched the drawers, the desk, under the bed. Nothing. She threw open a door on the wall, and abruptly stopped her search.

She had found Blaise's closet. There in front of her, aired out in front and beautiful, was the dark blue robe. The robe that Pansy had envied for every year that she had known it existed, the robe that Pansy had only worn once but fallen in love with then. She reached out, to touch it, and found its soft silk light and cool on her hands. It was hers; Blaise had given it to her in her will. It could do no harm to try it on immediately, no one would see but herself. Slowly, gently, she picked it up, and just as slowly and carefully, brought it over to the bed, laying it down before closing, and locking, the door to the room. 

She nearly tore off her old robe, before sliding into the new one. She hurried over to Blaise's mirror, to look at her self. Of course, she now fancied herself quite beautiful, and quickly ransacked the desk to find the matching earrings she had also been given, fastening them hastily to her ears. She grabbed a pocket mirror from the table, and looked at the little blue stones dangling prettily from her pasty, normal-looking ears, and sighed. Another sigh came from the pocket mirror, and then; "You always did look better than I did in that robe."

It sounded like Blaise, and Pansy swiveled around, searching for the other girl.

"I'm in here, in the mirror. Look at it angled, and you can see me, I think."

Pansy angled the mirror to look behind her, and there was her friend, sitting on the bed and kicking her feet idly. "You've no idea how glad I am that you came," Blaise commented, standing up. "It's dreadfully boring in here."

"How'd you get in there?" Pansy stuttered. 

"Oh, well, Tom couldn't kill me for some reason or another, and so he put me in here for when he would be able to kill me. Only, I thought it would be more exciting, but there's not a single other soul in the entire place, so far as I can tell. So now I'm frightfully angry with him."

"How can I help? Get you out of there, I mean."

The Blaise in the mirror smiled widely. "Just look at yourself more, you do look so beautiful in that robe."

Pansy was not altogether unhappy about admiring herself, and so she continued to do so, until she felt her eyelids drooping and a wave of exhaustion coming on. She sat on the bed, and angled the mirror once more, to look for Blaise. 

Except, Blaise was nowhere to be seen in the mirrored-room. Pansy yawned, but found it hard to concentrate on actually wondering where Blaise was. Which wasn't much of a problem, as Blaise had appeared directly in front of her. Pansy sat up, abruptly. "Blaise! You're out!" The other girl nodded. "I suppose you'll be wanting your robe back, then?" she asked, sheepishly.

Blaise shook her head. "No, it's not necessary. And I doubt I'm out to stay, I suppose I'll return eventually. Look at my hand." She held her hand up to the light, and Pansy could see the problem; it was translucent, wavering slightly on the edges. 

"So what are you going to do?" Pansy asked.

"I wait. Until Tom sorts everything out and he can kill me," the other girl answered resolutely. Pansy wasn't sure this was the best choice, but Blaise seemed sure of it. Pansy would certainly not have died for the man she saw in the salon.

"What's so special about Tom that you have to die for him?"

"Don't you know?" Blaise whispered. "He's… he's… he's You-Know-Who. Only, he's younger. Told me so, when I met him." That would explain a lot. Blaise thought that by resurrecting lord Voldemort, she could bring herself power and honor in the ranks of the Death Eaters. And, after all, the Death Eaters were the only wizards who really mattered anyway.

But, then again, who was to say that the young man sitting next to Mr. Zabini downstairs actually was Lord Voldemort? He certainly didn't look like He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Didn't much sound like him, and didn't have the horrifying and foreboding presence that her parents said You-Know-Who undoubtedly possessed. It didn't do much to help understand Blaise's motives to be questioning the reality of her beliefs. Blaise thought that Riddle was You-Know-Who, so she was willing to die so that he could live.

Pansy would still never do it; kill herself for You-Know-Who. It didn't make sense. She was out there to make the best name she could for herself, and that certainly didn't coincide with killing herself at an early age. What it did coincide with was working hard, studying, and calculating her way into the position of leadership amongst the Slytherin girls. Not to mention amassing large portions of gold in a well-paying job once she got out of Hogwarts.

The girls would have continued to talk, as Blaise faded more and more into the air, but the door to Blaise's bedchamber was flung open, and who should appear but Tom Riddle himself.

Pansy jumped to attention, rallying her strength to explain herself. Blaise disappeared, into the mirror. Tom – He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named – looked as if he knew exactly what was going on and was not at all pleased. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Nothing, sir," Pansy answered. "Well, just picking up the robe that Blaise left me in her will." She tried to make her voice emotionless and calm, but it wasn't working.

"Liar!" Riddle cut, reaching for the mirror. This was suddenly no Lord Voldemort. This was a boy her age who knew a dark magic spell or two and was trying to keep Blaise Zabini locked up in a little hand mirror. Well, even if Blaise was horribly misdirected in her thoughts, Pansy wasn't, and she wasn't about to let her friend be turned into a lapdog to some unknown entity, this Tom Riddle.

"You can't have that, sir, it's only my portable mirror," she said, with more force in her voice. Mr. Zabini appeared at the window. "I just came up here to get the robe, sir," Pansy explained, motioning to the robe she was wearing, "the one that Blaise left me. And… and then, sir, I tried it on, to try and remember that one time, the Yule Ball, sir, when I had worn it before and loved it. And that made me remember Blaise, and then I just broke down, sir. And now, Mr. Riddle, sir, he comes up and tries to take my little mirror away from me, the one that Blaise had given to me last year," She looked imploringly at Mr. Zabini, who obviously thought she was touched in the head. But, he nodded, and showed her out of the room and to the street. Once outside, she remembered the books.

It was little use now; she would have to keep them until she saw Tom Riddle again. On the way home, she pulled the mirror out of the pocket of her robe, to find Blaise sitting next to her, livid.

"What in Merlin's name did you do that for? You'll get yourself dishonored for sure by treating You-know-who like that! Not to mention me; how am I supposed to die if Tom can't find me?"

Pansy only smiled. "You're not going to die," she answered. "You're going to live, and be great in your own right, just like anyone else from the Slytherin house."

Blaise didn't speak to her for the rest of the journey.

. .

For the first time in his life, Tom Riddle did not know what was going on. He stood, shocked, as some Petunia Peterson or something like that took away his one sure method of becoming alive. He looked at his hand, seeing not the solid flesh but the fuzzy edges that marked him, to the trained eye, as a mere memory of his former self.

He had to find Blaise Zabini.

He also had to find Virginia Weasley, preferably before finding Blaise. Now that he had a better victim, one who he could advertise as being the one to sacrifice herself for her leader's resurrection, now that he was looking at bigger plans than setting a Basilisk free in the school, he could afford to do away with the innocent victim. 

Of course it was more complicated than that, or Virginia Weasley and Blaise Zabini would both be dead, and Tom Riddle would be calmly going about his business of killing those unworthy of magical training. 

Blaise couldn't die until Ginny had forgotten. 

And not a simple memory charm, either. He had done more reading when he found that the spell hadn't been perfect. Of course, it had been closer to well implemented than most sixteen year olds could wish for, but the fact that it wasn't perfect still bothered him. And the problem had turned out to be his greatest stumbling block to date. 

To complete the spell, he had needed blood from his mother and his father. However, as his mother was dead and his father unreachable for the time that he was at Hogwarts, he had used the substitute suggested: twice the amount of his own blood. 

Therein lay the catch. Any substitution is not perfect, and they all have their consequences. Because he had used only one person's blood, he could only use one person's soul to return to life. A consequence only mentioned in a footnote of a footnote at the end of the chapter including the spell.

Which would be working well, if Ginny Weasley had forgotten. Then her soul would have returned to her, and he would have been free to find his next potential victim, kill Blaise Zabini, and return fully to life. However, it hadn't worked that way.

Just as a jar can only hold a certain amount of water, Tom Riddle was unable to sap more than 1 soul in total. Except, due to the substitution, this was the one case where half a liter and five hundred milliliters didn't add up to one liter in use, even if they still did in volume. Which meant that he couldn't take all of Blaise's soul, kill her, until he got rid of whatever remnants of Ginny's soul she would not take back. And if he just killed Ginny, then the soul would have nowhere to go, and he would be permanently stuck a memory. Which wasn't what he wanted to be. Because, as a memory, he had to rely on the self-same Virginia Weasley to remember him, and not suddenly decide she wanted her soul back. 

Which all boiled down to one course of action; find Ginny, and find Blaise. Order didn't matter so much.

But it was summer holidays, so both of them would be impossible to find. 


	2. Defense Mechanisms

A/N: Thanks again to the S.S Gin'n'Tonic over at FictionAlleyPark. I think it was MartianHouseCat who brought up the subject of violation in T/G. The general ship's conclusion was that, whether or not anything happened in the Chamber (and I'm of the not school here, after all, she _was _only 11 or 12 and he _was _still intangible for the most part) Molly and Arthur Weasley would say the worst of Tom.

Thanks to both (come on, people, review!) my reviewers, theMuse and kilohana. I'll look into the end of chapter 1 and I'll probably post a rewrite sometime soon. Thanks for the criticism. I have this planned out and it's not too many chapters, actually.

_Inkubus_

Chapter 2: Defense Mechanisms

Ginny Weasley hated Tom Riddle. Time had worn on her memory so that she could recall nothing specific, only the one fact, the concrete, inescapable mantra of her parents on the subject: Tom Riddle was evil, he had raped her.

Of course, in the summer between her fourth and fifth years, she knew perfectly well what "rape" meant, and took it at its face value. She had never been told otherwise, after all. She had been violated in the Chamber, and although she had no memory of it, such horrors are often repressed in a child's mind. Or so her parents said. It was constant over that summer, after her first year of school, and recurrent even throughout her fourth year at school. Ginny remembered the very first time she had shown interest in a boy other than Harry; when her mother had met Neville Longbottom. Afterwards, Molly Weasley had only one comment. "Well, he might not be Harry, but at least he's not Tom Riddle." She seemed smugly happy that she had tied it back to Ginny's first year, but the comment brought up connections and inferences that Ginny objected to.

"Merlin's beard, mother, that was _nothing._" Ginny shouted. "I was _twelve._ And for the majority of time, he was in a book! When will you realize that Tom Riddle is evil because he tried to _kill _me and countless others_, _not because you think he might have raped me." She didn't add: I'm not sure I would have minded. She didn't add: I almost wish he had. She didn't add: I always wonder whether I was anything to him except a route to a goal. There was no use giving her mother more ammunition against her, pinning herself as still besotted with a teenaged dark lord. 

Molly Weasley only stared at Ginny, quizzically. "Well, I rather liked Neville. Quite a sensible fellow, if you ask me."

There was an awkward silence. Ginny wondered exactly how much of that statement was a lie and how much was the truth. Anyone who could honestly call Neville Longbottom 'sensible' and be serious about it was on some new kind of magical powder of which Ginny had yet to hear.  

For the next week, however, Ginny heard nothing but 'Tom Riddle is evil', 'Tom Riddle raped you', and 'Neville is such a nice boy' on the subject. Ginny knew; Neville was a nice, sensible boy because he had none of the allure, the charm, the wittiness that Tom had. Neville was as anti-Tom as possible. His single claim to fame was that he was the boy who had won the House Cup for Gryffindor five years ago in his first year, for nervously telling his friends that they couldn't save the school, and being petrified by Hermione Granger. 

 As opposed to Tom, who was arguably the best student Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry had ever seen. But Ginny wouldn't tell her mother that.

The most she replied with was a quiet "Mum, will you stop talking about Tom Riddle, please?" 

Her mother didn't even look over to her. "Tom Riddle raped you, dear. He's evil."

Ginny took a deep breath. "I don't remember that. I don't remember him being evil. Ever." Her mother would probably explode now, and she would be grounded for the rest of the summer. After all, what kind of fool said that Tom Marvolo Riddle, Lord Voldemort, wasn't evil? 

However, Molly Weasley did not explode. She placidly continued knitting. "You've just repressed the memory," she stated, "It's a defense mechanism." The speech had the casual intonation of a recital; something learned from a book and drummed into memory by repetition. There was a pause, before Molly finally turned to face her daughter. "After all, he raped you. He is evil."

This was, actually, more of a two-sided discussion than Ginny had ever had with her mother about the Chamber incident. Directly after the incident, they had showered her with hugs, and kisses, and backwards jabs at her best friend, Tom Riddle.

"… Unlike that evil Tom Riddle, raping an eleven year old girl!"

"He wasn't evil to me, mummy, he was nice. He listened to me."

"Yes dear," and Molly would turn to her husband. "She's repressing the memory, Arthur. Children often do this, I read. It's a defense mechanism, or something like that." There was a pause. "After all, he raped her. He's evil."

Ginny couldn't help thinking about the comparison to her silent life at home and the confidant she had once had. _He listened to me, mummy, just like you never do. _"Mummy, what's rape?" Ginny mumbled. Her mother continued chattering about psychological disorders and traumatic situations. Ginny repeated her question, louder. No response. Finally Ginny left the room, disappointed with her family and heartily wishing the Very Secret Diary had not been destroyed. She would have had a lot to tell it – him – now that she was back home.

Ginny clung to every memory she had of Tom Riddle. She was going to disprove, or prove, her mother once she found out what rape was. Maybe she _did _remember, and just didn't know it.

A look with the family dictionary brought no success. The book was such an old prissy that it wouldn't tell the young girl what rape meant. "Wait 'till you're older, dearie," It responded, and refused to so much as open for her unless she asked it a new word. It was a year before she understood what her mother had been saying all along, graced by Hermione's inanimate Muggle dictionary.  

By that time, she had forgotten most of what happened anyway, and just accepted the horrifying mantra for the truth. Tom Riddle had raped her. He was evil.

However, her decision to hate Tom (for that was what it was and she could just as easily have decided to not accept the 'fact' that he had raped her) did anything but distance her from his memory. It came to be that her every motive was to prove herself not just his victim, and to get what she wanted at all costs, to be independent of all help. In short, to be Slytherin-like.

_He raped me, _she thought, _he used me, abused me, broke me. But I will show him. I will be strong, unusable, and unbreakable. No one will pierce my defenses; no one will gain my confidence without my knowing exactly who he is. _

She knew the family history of every first year. She knew the ins and outs of the castle. She convinced Fred and George to give her a look at their map, and memorized the locations of hidden passages. She didn't trust any Slytherins, Ravenclaws, or even Hufflepuffs, without first finding out as much as she possibly could from books about Hogwarts and common gossip. She had a few trusted friends, and even with them she didn't share many secrets. 

She decided to be the best student in her class, and she was. She studied hard every night, reviewing the books and her class notes, doing the homework well in advance, isolating herself from her talkative housemates, losing herself in the books, charms, hexes, curses. She went to Hermione for help once a week, reviewing the material with the best of Gryffindor House. Hermione and she became good friends. However, even Hermione never heard about the Chamber incident from Ginny's point of view. Studies gave Ginny a mask of thoughtfulness. She attained peace only through study, and couldn't go to sleep without a book in her hands.

She decided, with Hermione, that they would both go to the Yule Ball. She decided, with Hermione, that they would get the attention of Harry and Ron, respectively. And so, while Hermione had the easy choice when Viktor Krum offered to take her, Ginny took Neville. That was the reality of the situation, although the common story tells it in reverse. Ginny Weasley decided to go to the Yule Ball. Ginny Weasley took Neville. After all, few others would want to go with a third year.

Still, the memory haunted her. Every night, as she fell asleep clutching at the pages of a book, she wished it was a different book, one that did not tell its secrets to just anyone. She wished that it could be more than a book. That it was a book she could confide in and trust. She wished it were _the _book, the one that would give her no choice but to trust it, to fall heavily into its pages and never again awake.

She wished it were the book that would absolve her of guilt, of responsibility, and let her live in peaceful oblivion. Now she chose what to do; when she failed a test she got an angry letter from Percy, when she acted, it had a direct consequence that she had to live with. With Tom, nothing had been her fault. Six had been petrified because of her, six had nearly died, and she wasn't held responsible in the least. It had been Tom's fault, everyone had been all too willing to blame it all on the Diary.

Of course little Ginny Weasley hadn't taken any initiative. She was just an eleven-year-old girl, a Gryffindor and a Weasley at that. She had fallen behind in her studies, lost sleep and friendships, almost lost her very soul in a delicate power struggle that she was fated to lose from the very beginning. 

And none of it was her fault. The Diary was Tom, and Tom was the greatest wizard of all time, so Ginny couldn't have helped but fall under his heady spell. That entity swallowed up all her guilt, all her responsibility easily, nicely, like a drop in a river. 

Except, he had raped her. Tom Riddle was evil. She had been used, victimized, torn apart by dark forces. She couldn't let that happen again.

No one could touch her now. No one could break his way into Ginny's subconscious. No one, no one in the entire world could do that, except Tom Riddle. 

. .

She sat awake at night, thinking about him. It didn't seem a strange thing to do, for it had never been much different. However, it had never been this bad.

It was winter; she stared at the snow falling outside her window. Something was not right. Her heart felt heavy, her first year played an endless loop in her memory, only this time there was no Tom and she was guilty. She felt the guilt of all her actions, now twice as painful because she hadn't dealt with them before. She pushed away the memory, refused to accept it, but it kept returning. Finally, after midnight, she was able to sleep.

It had happened several more times over the course of the year, her strange depression would come on, and then after midnight it would be replaced by that indescribable weariness she had felt once before. The worst had been the night before she found out that Blaise Zabini had been pulled out of school. Ginny hadn't slept at all that night, fits of tossing and turning alternating with time spent staring out the window, newly guilty and suddenly normal. She was never sure if it was a dream or not, that night.

He had entered silently. That was no surprise. He was the kind of person who would always enter silently, would always surprise you. She hadn't noticed him, concentrating all her attention on the window. _It wasn't my fault, _she insisted, _it was Tom._

"Why did you remember?" he asked. It was hardly more than a whisper, but it rang off in her ears like a filibuster's firework.

She turned abruptly, shocked. That sounded like him. It sounded like Tom.

It _was _Tom. She couldn't say anything, just sat there, agape. He wasn't supposed to be alive, he was supposed to just be a memory, her memory, silent and comforting, at the back of her mind. Now he was all too real and all too frightening. 

"Why did you remember?" he repeated.

"I—I—I had to," she stuttered in reply.

"No you didn't." He was calm, emotionless, in control of the situation as always. This was completely normal his tone said to her, she shouldn't be frightened in the least. You expected this to happen, sooner or later. You wanted me to come back. There's no reason for you to be afraid.

So she wasn't. "I had to be sure they were telling the truth about you," she said with more confidence.

He looked surprised. "And? Were they?"

"Yes. You're evil." _I hate you. Right?_

"Is that it?" He laughed softly, not his out of place, high-pitched laugh, but a deeper chuckle that didn't send shivers up Ginny's spine. "I would have hoped they would have been more creative than that." He was amused by the situation. It didn't bother him that people said he was evil. He _wanted _people to think he was evil. Well, he had succeeded; everyone knew how evil he was.

That was not a situation to be amused about. "You raped me," she answered, bluntly. She knew it wasn't the normal sort of statement, but this wasn't the normal sort of situation and at 2:00 A.M. she was too tired to care.

"Did I?" he answered, serious again. "Are you sure?" It wasn't a real question; it was a test.

"Children often repress horrible memories like that," she recited. "It's a defense mechanism."

"Horrible? When was I ever horrible to you, Ginny Weasley?"

"I don't remember." A pause. He was winning. "I hate you, you raped me. You're evil."

It didn't do much to help her cause. "If you hate me, why didn't you forget?" Ginny had no answer. "Was I horrible? Was I your enemy? Or do you remember me as your closest friend and confidant? Was I ever horrible to you?"

"You tried to murder me. That was horrible."

"Did I?"

This was absurd. She _knew _he tried to murder her, even if she didn't know for a fact that he had raped her. "You had to kill me for the spell to work. You would have murdered me if Harry hadn't stopped you."

"Is that what you remember?"

Ginny tried to remember the Chamber, when he had tried to kill her, Harry and her, but Harry had won, like always. Only, she couldn't remember that, or anything else 'horrible' that happened. The Tom in her memory was as innocent as a fuzzy kitten, all kindness and support for her in her first year, and although she knew that he was playing with her memory, or something, she couldn't really tell how. "No," she responded.

He nodded. "So, is that what happened?"

She yawned, but didn't say anything. As tired as she was, she didn't let go of the ingrained mantra. _He's evil._

He took a step closer to her. "Your memory doesn't lie. What do they know? You are the only one who knows what happened. Trust your memory. Memories don't lie."

It was an ironic statement coming from him. "You're a memory," she answered. "You lied." 

He smirked. "I'm the exception that proves the rule. Are they right?"

Her precarious grip on reality was quickly fading away into nothing. If she could trust her memories, and they hadn't lied to her many times before, then her parents and the world was wrong. If she was to trust the world, a world that was full of evil but also full of honorable people who had never lied to her, then they were right. But she was the only one who knew what had really happened; she was the only one who had been there. So her memories were the only source of the truth, and she couldn't remember what they said happened. "No," she whispered, giving in to memory. "No, they're wrong."

He smiled, cryptically. "Now you know if they were right. So you can forget."

"No." She stood up, slightly more awake. "After all that, I at least have a right to live so as to prevent it from happening again. I won't forget, so long as I live and there are manipulative, evil people out there."

"But they were wrong," he whispered. "Where is the manipulation, the evil?"

"You made me call the Basilisk. You made me try to kill people," the words caught in her throat and she was close to sobbing. "You made me do that, Tom. I never want to kill anyone again. I want to prevent that."

"Do you want to prevent it? Do you really care that much? Why does it even matter? It's over." On second thought, perhaps standing up had been a bad idea. She thought it would make her seem more decisive, but it was proving to be more of an effort to continue standing than she had bargained for. She woke herself up. This was the time to stand up to her fear, to be strong, not to fall back asleep and give in.

"It's not over," she said. It didn't really matter so much what she was arguing at this point, so long as she was disagreeing with him.  "You're here. It's just beginning."

"No," he whispered. "Not for you, Ginny. Your time is ending. It's time you forgot." She shook her head feebly, but the strength to stand was rapidly draining out of her. She was sure she would fall, any moment now, fall onto the floor with a loud thump and wake up all her housemates. She was about to collapse when someone caught her, and replaced her on her bed. She was fairly confident who it would logically have been, but the rules of logic had been bent for an evening, so she remained unsure. When she awoke, the next morning, he was gone.

She heard about Blaise the next day, from Hermione. It was strange; no one had seen Blaise being taken away from school, but she was undeniably missing. Her things, except her schoolbooks, were being carted out of the Slytherin dungeon that day, by house elves from the Zabini mansion. All of the Slytherins had some souvenir of the girl. And the strangest thing happened in Potions class; Hermione had overheard Pansy Parkinson tell Draco Malfoy that Blaise was dead, and ask him if he had ever heard of Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Life had gone on, and Ginny hadn't seen Tom since. She was glad for that. When he wasn't around, she could accept her illusions, he was evil, she was blameless, and everything was back to normal. 

It was summer holidays before the insomnia hit again. But this time it was different. This time it was because she had figured out, for the first time, what was happening, and it bothered her.

Tom had found another victim. 

And his victim was a Slytherin.

. .

Pansy wondered how she was going to find Tom Riddle again without returning to the Zabini mansion, and making herself fairly obvious. She pondered this between meals, homework, and talking to the mirror. Or, trying to talk to the mirror, for Blaise remained as upset about Pansy's actions as ever. 

"Blaise, will you come out of the mirror and have some food?"

Silence.

"I've told my mother you're here, she's dying to see you."

Nothing.

"Why don't you come out so we can use the new broomsticks my father bought?"

No response.

Finally, in a fit of frustration, Pansy grabbed the mirror and threw it across the room. "Blaise, when will you realize that you've got it wrong, Tom Riddle isn't Lord Voldemort!"

A shriek came from the mirror. Pansy ran over and picked it up. A huge crack ran down the middle, and two Blaises were screaming inside. Sighing, Pansy fished in her drawer for something to fix the mirror with. She tried to fix it with spell-o-tape, but soon realized that that was a lost cause, and tried to calm Blaise down. Blaise stopped her hysterics. Pansy sighed and carefully replaced the mirror among her things. 

"He's coming," Blaise said, nonchalantly. Her voice was so empty and hollow that it made Pansy shiver. It was as if someone was talking through Blaise, not the girl herself saying the words.

"Who?" Pansy whispered.

"Tom," came the hollow voice again.

"Why?"

"To get me, of course," the voice approached normalcy, and the strange shiver left Pansy's spine. "To get me, and to kill you and your family for going against his will. You'll see. You never cross You-Know-Who, Pansy Parkinson." 

Pansy said nothing. If Tom Riddle did come, she had those schoolbooks for him. He would have saved her a trip to the Zabini mansion.


	3. Decisive Action

Disclaimer: No, I do not own Harry Potter. No, I am not making any money off of this story and I do not mean to hurt the business of Bloomsbury, Scholastic, Rowling, or anyone else involved in these lovely books. I'm just another innocent fan, don't hurt me. This doesn't contain any spoilers for book 5, so you can read freely.

_Inkubus_

Chapter 3: Decisive Action

Tom found Blaise first, on a whim. He supposed that his first step would be to find this Penny, or Pansy, girl. He inquired with the Zabinis after any especially close friends of Blaise's, and was supplied with her name and the location of her sprawling chateau, wedged firmly into the side of a hill, and growing out of it like a fungus. The door was attended by a stern-looking Goblin. "Who goes there?" called a gruff voice.

"My name is Tom Riddle," Tom answered, "I have business with the young lady of the house, in regards to one Blaise Zabini," and then he added, "Recently deceased." Blaise had no place with the living any more, and the point was worth emphasis. Even if she wasn't dead, she had less than half of her soul. She was effectively dead. Her body was gone, well, yes. Her body was already cold, in her family mortuary. Blaise was dead. Any pretense that Pansy Parkinson might have that her friend was alive and well, just trapped in a mirror, was horribly false. The Goblin trundled away, leaving Tom in the entrance hall.

Pansy soon came down, carrying a huge stack of books, but no mirror. "I'm so glad you came!" she exclaimed cheerfully in her rather nasal voice, a huge, fake grin plastered to her puggish face. "I have all these to give you, Blaise's wishes," she dumped the books into Tom's hands. He caught them with an "Oomph". They weighed as more than a small child. "I hope you don't mind, but I'm terribly busy… I really can't entertain right now," the girl chattered to a mute Tom.

"Blaise," Tom began, trying to interject one or two demands into Pansy's stream of babble, but she was herding him out the door, with the help of the gruff Goblin and what would appear to be several of his friends. 

"I'm sure she _would _think of you, but she doesn't much remember, now does she? It's best that you just forget about her and move on with your plans without her. _She won't be much help to you now. _Sorry, really must excuse myself, can't entertain right now…" She shoved Tom out and the door shut on his nose with a resounding crash.

Tom Riddle stood, shell-shocked and speechless, for a moment before taking the books to the enchanted car Mr. Zabini had leant him, and heading back to the Zabini Mansion.

The trip was at least an hour long, and so Tom leafed through the schoolbooks as he rode. There must have been a reason, and there it was, the little Diary to which he owed his current state. It was battered and burned, but a quick _Reparo _would fix that, and it might be usable once more.

He left the rest of the books in the car, having no use for them, and promptly entered the first guest bedroom, his bedroom, locking the door behind him.

Holding Blaise's wand out, he muttered "_Reparo._" The Diary writhed on the desk, like a small, dying animal. But then its holes patched, and its stains disappeared, and it was once again the Diary he had created. Tom dipped a quill into his dark green ink, and scratched a sentence onto the page. _Hello. _The ink glistened for a moment before seeping into the yellowed page. He heard it in the back of his mind, into that space where his Diary consciousness' was relegated now that he was out of the book, "Hello."

He willed another word out onto the paper, ink seeping out of the pages and back in again, "My name is Tom Riddle." 

Tom flipped through the old Diary. Blaise had forgotten, then? Or was Pansy's speech a ploy? In either case, he could do nothing without Ginny Weasley. Everything seemed to revolve around that girl. He searched what records he had for the Weasley residence, adamant on another encounter with little Virginia.

If Ginny had told him, five years ago, that 'home' was 'The Burrow', he would have found it straight out, in a matter of seconds. However, as it was, it took him several hours to locate the ramshackle house on a map. It was 7:00 when he found it, and both Mr. and Mrs. Zabini were busy at dinner. 

Exactly why anyone would want to live in that godforsaken locale was beyond him, but he supposed that Gryffindors operated beyond the bounds of logic. He hadn't heard of a single Slytherin from Ottery St. Catchpole, and he knew of a great many Slytherins. 

So. Blaise had forgotten, if he was to believe Poppy. The logic behind believing the girl was arguable, and he didn't want to think about it because he knew the real answer. Blaise was waiting, but she would be hard to get to with all those Goblins around. He supposed that, until he was ready to break into the Parkinson Castle, he would have to forget about Blaise. 

And the purpose of the Diary? To keep track of the other girl, Ginny Weasley.

He didn't need to take the car to Ottery St. Catchpole. The Knight Bus would serve such purposes as that, and he didn't want to be rude to his dining hosts. 

The Knight Bus picked him up just outside the mansion, and he settled down in the back of the first story, wondering exactly how he was going to handle this next encounter with Virginia Weasley. He opened the Diary, to a blank page. _Hello Ginny Weasley, It's me. _

He wasn't exactly sure how it would be useful, but he was sure it would. 

. .

Ginny had fallen asleep, that night, easier than she had slept in several years. But she awoke in the early hours of the morning, her body telling her that although her drowsiness was oppressive, she didn't need sleep. That exhaustion had set in that she trained her body against, the familiar drowsy that she fought now, even in her sleep. She slowly walked to the window.

She knew what she would see, and there he was, looking up at her from the garden. 

There was nothing for him to see, her room was pitch black and the garden shone with fairy lights and gnome-fires. But still he stared up at her, unwavering and pensive. As if he was debating his next move. She felt strangely drawn to him, strangely drawn to stand next to him and speak her mind about everything – it didn't matter what. She crept outside, pulling on a robe over her pajamas. She hadn't unpacked yet; it was her Hogwarts School work robe, emblazoned with the Gryffindor crest.

If her plan had been to surprise Tom, she would have failed. If she had meant to catch him before he decided on his next action, she would have met with only disappointment. If she wanted any sort of advantage over him, she would have been better off staying in her room upstairs, where people would have heard him on the creaky floorboard in the kitchen, or the noisy second step, and come to her assistance. However, being as she wasn't aiming for any of these specifically, and she wasn't quite sure what she was even meaning to do, she found no such defeat when she couldn't find Tom.

Because of course he was behind her, as soon as she was surrounded by shrubbery and garden plants. "Tom?" she whispered.

"You still remembered, even when I ordered you to stop." It was a mere statement of fact. He betrayed no emotion. Ginny couldn't see the future, but she pulled out her wand defensively. 

"Yes," she answered, trying to gain the same nonchalance and emotionless ness that Tom had, but probably betraying her fear. 

"Why?" Came the neutral voice.

"I don't know," she answered quickly, but saw that this was not an acceptable answer. "It was horrible. How could I forget?" She spoke through her hazy drowsiness, through her fear. She steeled her nerves against any possible attack, and gripped her wand tighter.

"Easily enough. I think you know how." 

Of course she knew how, but that meant accepting the guilt for her first year, and she didn't deserve that. Not when there was so willing a receptacle as Tom. "I don't want to." She bit. It was the truth, and the truth was always easier with Tom. He could tell when she was lying. "You can't make me."

He smirked. "Yes I can, little Ginny." He held up Blaise's wand, examining it, and Ginny, closely. "A quick memory charm, and you'd be asking if I was related to Harry Potter. But not tonight. I'm not here to _make_ you forget." 

"Then why?" 

"So you will forget on your own."

She glared up at him, and spoke in clipped tones. "You can't convince me to do your bidding so easily, Tom. I'm not such a fool anymore and I have no desire to forget everything I've learned and go back to being usable and naïve. You tried to convince me once before. It didn't work then and it won't work now. I won't forget what you made me do, or I run the risk of being used again."

"If you're so grown up, why did you come out here tonight?" Ginny said nothing. There was nothing to say. She looked down, ashamed. Tom tilted her head back to face him, not allowing her an easy escape. "I think, no I know, something else is going on here. Don't look down, you know where the answer is and it's not on the ground."

She stood like that for a moment, tears coming to her eyes. Why _had _she come down? She should have ignored him, stayed up in her room, locked the door and hidden the key, fastened it against opening spells, and crouched, shivering, in the corner. But that wouldn't have been the brave, strong, smart Gryffindor Ginny Weasley that everyone expected her to be. She had come down here to tell him to _leave her alone. _And she would tell him to leave her alone.

"I came out here to tell you – I hate you. Get away from me," she whispered harshly, jerking away from him and glaring, wand at the ready, to hex him with some vile spell. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, her hand was shaking, she couldn't help it. "You're evil. You used me before and you would again if you didn't have a Death Eater girl in your pocket." She blinked her eyes free of tears and grabbed his free hand with hers, holding it up in the fairy-lit garden to see the blurring edges. "But you're not alive yet, for one reason or another. And you want to use me to get alive, is that it? Blaise stopped trusting you before you could suck her dry, and so you came back for little Ginny Weasley?" Tears formed in her eyes again, and she dropped his hand, gripping her wand with both hands and trying to steady it. "I've got a message for you, Tom. I'm not that stupid any more. You tricked me once, but you won't again." She tried to turn away, but he caught her hand. Even if he wasn't quite real yet, he was still stronger than she was. She let out a sob.

"Let me go!" she shouted, but he ignored her. "You expect me to fall right back into your deceptive arms, but I won't." She tugged at her arm, to no avail. "I've done everything I could to prevent this. You're not going to catch me again. You can't. I'm a prefect now, I'm a good student, I've gotten over Harry as best I can, I know the family history of every student at Hogwarts. Every student, Tom. I've prepared and prepared and there's no way…" She felt her weariness grow, and she trailed off. It didn't take much force for Tom to turn her around so she would face him. The smirk on his face said it all too clearly. "You've already won…" she whispered. 

"I always win, Ginny. I always win eventually." He kissed the top of her head, just like she was a twelve-year old girl again, in the Chamber of Secrets. 

She looked up at him, taking all of her diminishing strength to say, "I hate you. Someone will beat you. Harry will."

Tom smirked again. "Ginny dear, Harry Potter is as good as dead."

"I'll warn him," she added desperately.

"Of course you will, Ginny."

"I will."

"You'll be too scared to form a complete sentence."

Anger replenished her energy, and she stood up. "I'm not afraid of Harry Potter anymore. I'm not twelve years old."

"I never said you would be afraid of _him._" Tom said, more serious. "Yes, Virginia, you have grown up. But so have your fears." 

"I'll warn him," she said, but his eyes were magnetic and dark, and they got bigger and darker, and then there was a flash of light, just before she blacked out. 

She was lost, just as surely as in her first year. 

It _was _her first year, she dreamt of wandering dark swamps, holding up an ephemeral lantern to chase away the shadows, but they gathered in close and the flickering light was the only thing holding them at bay, and the little flame gasped and sputtered and struggled. 

And then it went out, and everything was blackness. And she had failed, been too weak, too small, nothing in the face of all that blackness, that uncontrollable wave of dark that swallowed everything. Darkness that gulped up the light greedily, darkness that hid her in its folds and allowed her no escape.

She cried, alone in the darkness. She had fallen. She was too weak.

When she opened her eyes, she was in her bedroom, her blanket a mess, a tangle around her, but light shone through the window and it was a new day. A Diary, black leather bound and worn with age, sat, falsely meek, on her desk. 

She would destroy it. Burn it. When she had the time.

Her mind flew back to the previous night. Had she…? Had he?

And what was that light she had seen?

She didn't remember enough. She could never remember enough.

But that dream. The last time…

She rushed downstairs, terror stricken, not even noticing she was still in her pajamas, the ankles wet with dew. Had she done something? Was everyone all right?

Her family was gathered around the kitchen table, unsurprisingly. More surprisingly was the boy with messy black hair and green eyes sitting next to her brother. Harry Potter was smiling as he ate his fill of breakfast. She grinned as best she could, and sat down affecting normalcy. She would ignore the pajamas. Her fear drained away and was replaced with exhaustion. Everyone was okay, including Harry Potter.

That Diary would have to go, she thought as she picked at her food. She wasn't hungry, couldn't tell why. At her mother's insistence, she shoved down a few mouthfuls before returning to her room. The Diary stared at her, defensive, on the desk. It knew she wanted to destroy it. It was ready for her. She picked it up, idly flipping through the pages. Blank, as usual. Words curled up. "Hello, Ginny dear." She slammed the cover shut and quickly jammed the Diary in a drawer. Ron was at the door, with Harry.

"Ginny," Ron began, tensely. "What were you doing outside last night?"

Ginny stared. How did he know? What did he know? "Just thinking, clearing my mind, I couldn't sleep."

Ron furrowed his brow, but said no more. Harry, however, was not so easily convinced. "Are you sure there wasn't another reason?"

This was ridiculous. They didn't know anything. They couldn't know anything. "You're imagining things." She lied. Her hand was shaking. She slipped it into her pocket. Her hand always shook when she was nervous, especially when she was lying. At least it wasn't the customary Weasley blush. "Maybe if you'd been paying attention, you'd have noticed; I've been having trouble sleeping lately. I just needed to unwind."

Harry and Ron stood looking suspicious. "Please, get out."

"If you'd like to talk," Ron started, but was cut off by Ginny's adamant gaze, and hurried off. Harry followed.

She didn't see him again until dinner, and didn't have much to say then. Pleasentries dispensed with and dishes doing themselves, she sat down quietly, to think out her predicament by the fire. Everyone else had gone – noises of explosions came from Fred and George's room, as usual. Fainter behind it were the sounds of Wizard chess. Harry and Ron must be playing a game. Her parents were in the kitchen, having a cup of tea and talking about the Order, in all likelihood.

Tom was back. This was, on all accounts, a disaster, but perhaps not an altogether irredeemable one. There was a chance – albeit a faint one – that she could face him, defeat him. She would simply have to hold her tongue. And she wasn't as stupid as she had been in her first year. She would not write in that Diary, she would not speak to Tom, she would starve him of energy until he was, once again, nothing more than a whiff of air on the breeze.

At least that way she wouldn't have to take the blame for herself. 

She stared at the fire. When it came down to it, she knew that that plan wouldn't work. It would provide Tom enough energy to come back, just as he had this time. It would provide a chance; and in time a chance would surely become the reality. She would have to forget him entirely. The fire crackled. The noises of explosion from the twins' room became so loud she couldn't hear the cracks and whistles of Wizard Chess from above them, or even the clanking of the ghoul in the attic. 

The fire warmed her feet, and she closed her eyes to think easier. She sighed, and began the painful process of eradicating Tom Riddle from her memory. It was her fault, she told herself. Those horrible attacks in her first year, she had attacked them. She had done so of her own volition. She had – here she hesitated because it was so painful to admit – she had wanted to, just to feel power. To feel special, different from her siblings; she had wanted to feel better than them. 

She had known what she was doing was wrong, so she had tried to blame it on Tom – to throw away the Diary and pretend it had been all its fault, but back came the Diary and back came her chance to show herself powerful, and – someone was sitting next to her.

"Ginny?" Harry asked. "Are you okay?"

Her eyes flew open and she turned on Harry. "Yes, I'm fine," she lied, slipping her hand into her pocket.

He kept looking at her, vaguely concerned. She returned his gaze. He said nothing. She went back to her thoughts. The Diary had only given her the chance, the option to show herself powerful, and she had taken it with both hands. She blinked. It was her fault, she told herself. It was all her fault. Her heart was pounding and she could feel the tears welling up in her eyes. If she hadn't been stopped, she would have – Harry interrupted her again.

"You're crying," he said, simply. "You're not fine. What is it? Have you been having strange dreams? Nightmares?"

"No. No, that's not it. Harry, it's…" she trailed off. She couldn't tell him. To tell Harry would bring Tom into the open, it would give him power, it would give him thoughts and consciousness that he didn't have before. It was best just to keep this to herself, but still… "It's… Tom's back."

It was amazing how fast Harry's demeanor changed. He went from kindly worried to almost panic-striken. "He's back? What's happened? Is that what happened last night? What's going on, Ginny?"

Harry was clutching her shoulders and staring at her in vague horror. Ginny felt her tears recede. Obviously, if Harry thought that Tom was this big a threat, then it was forgivable for a young girl of twelve years old to fall under his spell. "Calm down, Harry," she said, regaining some of her casual demeanor as she chided herself for secretly relishing his hands on her shoulders. "It's nothing. Nothing's happened yet – well, he's killed Blaise Zabini but that's it. And I won't let anything happen. It's just… to beat him…" The thought of bearing the guilt made her trail off.

"Don't worry, Ginny. I'll beat him," Harry said, calming down visibly when he heard it wasn't a catastrophe yet. "I'll take care of it." Now he seemed resigned – that was his fate, to be a hero.

"No," Ginny stated, forcefully. "I have to forget him. It's the only way to beat him. And forgetting him means accepting the fact that what happened in my first year – it was my fault. That's why I was crying."

"But… I can just destroy the Diary…"

"Oh, because that worked so well last time," Ginny bit. "I know what has to be done, Harry. After I've come to terms with forgetting him, you can toss the Diary into the fire, but until then destroying it would serve no purpose."

Harry nodded, the concerned look back on his face. "Just… if there's anything I can do, anything at all, you should tell me. I've tried to fight Voldemort alone, and it doesn't work." He tried to smile. 

"Weren't you playing Wizard Chess with Ron?" she asked him. After all, she had heard them arguing over a rule, or something. 

"He beat me. Now he's off owling Hermione about something or other."

Ginny nodded, and looked at the fire. Now that Harry was here, somehow, it made it easier. She remembered back to her first year. The sorting hat had said she could have gone to Slytherin, and Tom had proven it. Just give her a chance to get power, and she would seize it, even if it meant killing people along the way. She gulped. 

"You're drifting off again," Harry commented. 

"I'm trying to convince myself that it was my fault. I've gone through four years pretending it wasn't, the lie got ingrained as memory." She sank deeper into the sofa. "It's like; I've never really thought about what the sorting hat told me. It told me I could have gone to Slytherin. I had to beg it to put me in Gryffindor like my brothers. Imagine that – a Weasley, in Slytherin. My parents would have had a fit."

Harry smiled a bit. "Oh, that's nothing. The hat said the same thing to me. That doesn't make you evil, unless I am," he laughed. Ginny's spirits lightened. If Harry Potter could have gone into Slytherin, well then maybe it wasn't so bad what the Sorting hat had said. 

But still – she had tried to kill those people, directed the Basilisk against them so she could feel absolute power over life and death rushing through her veins, so she could control something. Harry must never have felt anything like that. She opened her mouth. "I attacked all those people," she mumbled.

"Do you remember it?" Harry asked.

"No, but they were attacked… I know it was my fault."

"Ginny, that wasn't your fault. No one blames you for it but yourself." Harry paused. "You were possessed."

There were sounds in the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley shouted up to the twins to quit exploding things and go to sleep. Soon she and Mr. Weasley would leave the kitchen. Harry turned to Ginny. "Ron will be done writing his letter, I suppose," he said, and climbed up the stairs to Ron's room. Ginny followed, taking a door a few flights of steps lower to her own.

She had warned him. He would be ready. He would – they would – destroy the Diary and Tom Riddle. She would make up for her first year. 

She felt better already, almost good enough to throw that useless, evil Diary into the fire all by herself. She pulled out the Diary, staring at it quizzically. Right then it seemed strange that something so little could cause so much harm. So much lasting harm. The pages flipped open. Writing was curling out, horrible threatening writing that chilled her to the bone and made her wish Harry was still right behind her. "_Fine then. Try and destroy me. See if you can. You are NOTHING, Ginny Weasley. You and your fabulous Harry Potter will fall, back to the dirt that you came from, the ignominy where you belong. You'll see. Maybe you could have gotten away with that when you were 11, but now you have to face the consequences of your actions." _She stared down at the page, and tried to shut the Diary, but it wouldn't close. A picture appeared, but she didn't look. 

She wouldn't be sucked in again. She wouldn't be tricked by Tom Riddle. She would destroy the Diary, and the memory. She would finish what she had started, all those almost five years ago. He was right, nothing was starting for her, she was ending his dominance over her life. She was gaining independence.

A/N: Okies. Well, OotP came out and the fandom has been rocked. *teeters on the brink of falling over* But as per usual, I'm not changing this fic any… I guess we'll just call it AU. Then again, isn't that what ficcing is all about? Thanks to my (three this time!) reviewers, Venus DeOmnipotent, Kilohana, and theMuse. Thanks to the folks at the Gin'n'Tonic and (for the first time ever) the Orange Crush… for being generally wonderful folks and providing me with inspiration. Ummm… that's it. One more chapter on the way. I promise a shorter wait this time.


	4. The Way of Memories

Disclaimer: No, I do not own Harry Potter. No, I am not making any money off of this story and I do not mean to hurt the business of Bloomsbury, Scholastic, Rowling, or anyone else involved in these lovely books. I'm just another innocent fan, don't hurt me. This doesn't contain any spoilers for book 5, so you can read freely.

_Inkubus_:

Chapter 4: The Way of Memories

Tom was trying to suck her in. But she wouldn't allow it. She wouldn't be tricked, not again. She would destroy the Diary, and the memory. She would finish what she had started, all those almost five years ago. He was right, nothing was starting for her; she was ending his dominance over her life. She was gaining independence. 

The light emanating from the diary got stronger, and drew her eyes over. All it took was one glance, and she felt herself falling again. It didn't matter, she wouldn't let it matter; for all her petty mistakes, she still would destroy him this time. It wouldn't make any difference if he won this battle; she was still fighting the war. No, she had not yet begun to fight the war. And soon she would make sure it was much harder for him to exert any control over her. She would destroy him; she would obliterate his memory; she would make up for her mistakes. 

But for now, she was falling. Falling through time and space and consciousness in a way that was all too familiar, even though the last time she had experienced it was in her first year at Hogwarts. She fell out of the present and into the memory-world that the diary represented, the memory world that Tom was from, the world of ideas and concepts and not of physicality or action.

It made sense that she didn't exist here. It made sense that the most she could do was see – not even touch anyone there. She had tried, once. Tried to grab onto her 'beloved' Tom's hand in her first year, tried to grasp on so she wouldn't get lost in this murky world of the past, but her hand had slipped right through him, like that of a ghost, without him even noticing so much as if she had been a ghost. It was a puzzle she sometimes would ponder late at night when a fit of insomnia would stir her: had she been the intangible one, or had he? Had she fallen into a world of spirits, or in falling did she become a mere transient spirit herself? 

Down, down she went, continuing her journey. She fell for a long time this time, longer than usual, deeper into the memory of the young dark lord. A scene materialized before her, a cold dark room with row upon row of sterilized white beds. She hit the floor with a faint thump, and reeled from the journey. She had never seen his childhood before – as this so clearly was. She had only heard of it from others: he grew up in an orphanage, she knew. The smell of coarse soap lay on this room like a cloud, Ginny could barely breathe. She looked down the row of starched white beds, trying to find the reason of her arrival. Tom always brought her here to show her something. Where, therefore, was the something she had to see? Nothing was there to show that it was inhabited by row upon row of small children, except there, on one of the beds far down the hallway, sat a slight, little boy with messy dark hair. She almost mistook him for Harry. 

Steeling her nerves, she walked towards him. He was whispering, so soft that she couldn't hear anything except a dull hiss. She stepped closer, tentatively, forgetting for the moment that he couldn't see her and worrying that he would be startled and stop saying whatever it was he was saying. She took another step, and then, she realized it wasn't anything but a dull hiss. There, in his hand, was a little green garter snake. She sat on the edge of a nearby bed and just looked at him, wondering exactly how this seemingly innocent little boy could become the Tom she knew. 

Two bigger boys came in, big boys like Crabbe and Goyle in the year above her. They both wore identical clothing: coarse-knit gray trousers, thin, slightly too small shirts, and identical smirks, as if they owned the world of the starched linen sheets and powerful disinfectant, and as if this was as mighty a kingdom as any man could desire. "Talking to the snake again, Thomas?" jeered one.

Tom said nothing, or at least, nothing in English. He continued to hiss quietly to the snake. Slowly, it curled around his wrist, resting only its head in his hand now. The other boy spoke up. "Stop your pretending, we all know you can't talk to snakes."

Tom looked up, fixed the two boys with a pair of the largest blue eyes Ginny had ever seen. Someone could drown in those eyes, she thought, and then quickly reprimanded herself. She was going to have to kill his boy, erase all of his memories from existence. She would kill even this one, this sweet little child who looked hardly evil. He was already Slytherin's heir, already a parselmouth. "Can too," he snapped back, brow furrowing in frustration and anger. Already vindictive, Ginny thought. 

One boy grabbed the snake from Tom, and in a panic Tom hissed something. The garter snake writhed in the boy's hand, finally finding a way to release itself from the cruel grip, and then slithered up the boy's arm, to his shoulder and bit him, in the neck. The snake should have just bit the boy's hand. Tom must have directed it. 

Already, this Tom was cruel, adept at the arts of pain. The poor, bitten boy screamed, threw the snake away, and ran down the hallway, leaving Tom his pet. The other boy followed. __

The memory faded, and Ginny floated upwards as Tom carefully picked his way across the floor, to reclaim his snake. She floated back into recognition and reality, away from the dusky memory. Already, those big blue eyes were receding from her thoughts and she was able to concentrate more on the relevant issue: that even this small, innocent child was a cruel, vindictive sadist, a dark wizard just waiting to happen. And although some might qualify it, say that his childhood accounts for his bad behavior, she had a counter argument to that. This memory of Tom Riddle's could be defeated easily, with pure logic. Then she was back in her seat. What was that supposed to teach her? She picked up her quill, and dipped it in the ink. One sentence was all it took. "Harry had a miserable childhood too, you know." She slammed shut the Diary, and locked it in a drawer. She was going to destroy him.

. .

_Harry had a miserable childhood too, you know. _The words blazed across Tom's consciousness, made brighter for the emotion and honesty behind them. He had forgotten how honestly Ginny felt things. Energy from her, hopes and dreams and even thoughts, was doubly potent for its honest emotion and raw sentiment. Tom stumbled, and fell, even as he felt the energy surging through him. Catching himself, he quickly Apparated to the Zabini mansion. He was weak. He glanced down at his hand, saw it flicker like a candle about to go out. Well, this certainly changed things. Apparently, Blaise Zabini was indeed forgetting.

This made Ginny Weasley worthy of consideration. After all, it wouldn't do to burn all his bridges until he knew he didn't, in fact, need to use them. Her honest energy and sentiment was like vodka to Blaise's weak alcohol of shallow feeling. He could make quick work of the lack of energy if he could tap into that raw emotion. But to find out if he did or did not need to use the Weasley girl, if he could or could not use the Weasley, he would need to find Blaise. 

Which meant another trip to the Parkinson Chateau. 

He had no need for sleep; after all he wasn't alive yet. So he Apparated directly, now that he knew for certain where the castle was located, he didn't need to bother his hosts. 

The goblin once again answered his knock, but this time he simply swept past the creature without so much as a nod of his head. Such things as servants knew to respect authority, especially when it was forced upon them. He marched up the staircase he had seen Pansy take, and into the first room he found.

He was lucky, he had guessed upon Pansy's wing of the house and her room while she was otherwise occupied. However, when he saw the broken mirror, his hopes failed.

This would be of no use to him. He could not get Blaise out of the mirror with the crack in the way, and a _Reparo_ charm would return the mirror to its original state: an ordinary mirror, Blaise's spirit erased. Those spells were all useless now, cut in half by the hairline fissure in the middle of the mirror. Blaise stared at him from below, mournful. "It's broken, isn't it, master?" she whispered.

"Yes," he answered, trying to stay calm. 

"Am I to die now?"  Blaise asked. It was clear now: the foolish girl was terrified. "Without seeing the glory of what is to come?"

"You are to die," he responded. "But there will be no glory. Your friend Pansy Parkinson has ended our hopes for glory." The cracked glass served as an impermeable barrier through which he could neither gain energy nor give energy. 

Which meant that the game was up. He was stuck in this in-between state forever. 

Blaise nodded. A tear ran down her face. "You will exact revenge?"

"Of course."

"Please, Tom…" she began, haltingly. "Please, if you can… be merciful. She didn't mean anything but the best, and she's a loyal Death Eater…"

"Quiet," he demanded, and the noise stopped. "I will do what I see fit."

Revenge was all that was left to him. It was only a matter of time now before he ran out of energy; he couldn't go on living off of people forever. He would exact his revenge on Parkinson, for ruining his plan. He waited, sitting in an armchair and idly twiddling the mirror, for the girl to awake. When she finally did, she shrieked. 

"What are _you _doing here?" she shouted, belligerent. 

"Retrieving something I believe you stole," he answered, holding up the mirror. 

"Give that _back. _Blaise gave it to _me._"

"I don't remember that in the will. Perhaps you could show me the documentation?" She was silent. "Well then. It's mine. But I'm in a benevolent mood today. You can have it." He threw the mirror, as hard as he could, against the wall to the right of her head. It split into a thousand pieces with a resounding _crash. _

Pansy gasped. "What did you do that for? You've killed her!"

"No, _you _killed her, when you put the first crack in the mirror. And now I'm going to kill _you, _for daring to interfere in matters that would not concern you, even if you could understand them." He pulled out Blaise's wand. But just then, when he was ready to kill the insolent girl, he wavered still more. His grip on the wand faltered and he step back, nearly dropping his weapon. The shards of glass on the floor were, to his eyes, glowing. Blaise was dead. He nearly felt her essence slip into nothing, leaving a faint sheen of energy on the floor by the mirror. He looked to his hand. It was still fainter, still more transparent than before. He shook his head, trying to gain concentration before the girl was able to force him out of the room.

Except, it had already happened. She called down to the goblin, and he hurried up, leaving Tom with no choice but to Apparate away. He was weak, weaker than he had been since Ginny Weasley left the Chamber alive. Which left only one explanation that he could think of. Blaise had forgotten. Just before she died, she had reclaimed herself, renouncing everything that she had done as a result of him in an attempt to bring him down with her. Perhaps she had even contrived to cast a memory charm on herself. This could be remedied. He only hoped that Ginny wasn't also forgetting. 

. .

Harry had been worried when Ginny told him about Tom's return, after all, the return of a memory of the teenaged Dark Lord can hardly be a good thing. However, the more he thought about it, the better things seemed. Obviously, she had told him before she got too deep into whatever his current plot was, or she wouldn't have been able to tell him at all. After all, she had tried to tell them in her first year and Tom – someone—had stopped her, or at least delayed her long enough for Percy to stop her. But this time, she had told him, without too much stumbling. 

All of which was a very good sign. A very good sign. They might be able to solve this problem before any damage occurred. Well, other than the death of Blaise Zabini, but she was a Slytherin so it hardly counted. 

And as always, a good night's sleep always sorted his thoughts out. That morning he awoke, ready to take on the dark Lord.

The flash of light two stories below hadn't troubled anyone's sleep except Ginny's.

. .

Ginny felt strangely lighthearted that night, and fell asleep easier than she had in months. It all boiled down to Harry – as long as he was on her side, nothing could go wrong. After all, Harry had defeated You-Know-Who countless times before, and Tom was weak. She could feel his grip on her reality weakening. She smiled in her sleep. She was having such a pleasant dream, flying up to the stars on her brother's broom. Higher and higher and higher still, the air was cooler up here, the wind stronger. The breeze caught against her face, whipped her hair around. The beauty of the night sky surrounded her. 

She turned around, looking down towards the Burrow. Someone was there, looking up at her room. She felt her stomach lurch, and suddenly her dream wasn't as friendly. The breeze turned into a wind that pressed against her face and mouth so hard she could barely breathe, and the broomstick seemed weak protection against the fall. She flew down.

And then, just as suddenly, she realized she could stop this if she just woke up…

Ginny's eyes flew open. She was back in her room, safe. Just to be sure, she hurried to her window. She could never double check enough times, after all, and even though she knew it was only a dream, her heart was hammering in her chest and she wanted to make sure—

There he was, standing out there, as if waiting for her. She would have to confront him one more time, she decided, this time she would forget him for good. She hesitated, thinking of bringing the Diary with her, but left it on her desk and turned back to the door. She carefully descended the flights of stairs, thinking of Harry and how proud he would be to find that she had beaten Tom on her own. She picked her way across the yard, thinking of her family sleeping – safe and sound because their daughter was brave and could handle herself…

She descended the stairs quickly, wrapped again in her old Hogwarts robe. She crossed the living room towards the door, but something stopped her. "Ginny," someone called, not from outside but rather from the sofa. She turned to see Harry sitting comfortably, watching the still glowing embers as they slowly went out. "Does going out to talk to him help?"

She blinked. "You know he's here?" she whispered. 

"Of course. I could see him too." Of course he could see him. It's not like Tom was invisible yet.

"I have to talk to him," she said, calmly, not letting her feelings betray her. No, a voice was calling out in her head, talking to Tom doesn't help; just stay here with Harry. Talk to him instead. Tell him everything. For once you have a trustworthy, open, welcoming confidante and you're turning him down— it was time to interrupt her train of thought with abrupt action. "I have to tell him one last thing. To level the score." Harry nodded. Ginny silently opened the door and stepped outside.

A few more steps into the garden were all it took before he was behind her.

"You keep coming…" Tom whispered. Something was different this time. No matter. 

"This is the last time. I'm over you." She smiled at herself.

"And yet you keep coming back…"

"I might have been stupid in my first year, but I am no longer." She turned around, heading back to the Burrow, and then paused.

She had expected him to stop her, or at least try. But she hadn't imagined him to be as ubiquitous as a ghost – as he passed through her to face her, she felt a shiver go up her spine. She was caught face to face with him and she faltered. Those eyes – fitting of the keeper of a Basilisk, they could calm you to not fear your oncoming death. They could freeze you in place. They did. As Ginny faltered, Tom became more solid. "You were never over me," Tom whispered.

Those blue eyes – you could drown in those eyes. Ginny wasn't altogether sure what happened next. But when she pushed Tom away from her, breaking off the kiss, she knew he was completely solid. She saw a light on in the Burrow – the fire place, and a head of tousled black hair facing it. Harry had lit the fire. Shaking, mumbling, she ran back to the Burrow. She didn't even notice that when she pushed Tom away, he had fallen to the ground, too weak now to stand.

She didn't run inside, but calmly walked and shut the door. It wouldn't be much guard against an ephemeral Tom, but that didn't matter. She sat beside Harry in front of the fire. "I thought I could handle this, but I can't," she said. "I need to talk to someone."

There wasn't even the moment of silence she had expected. "I'm all ears," Harry responded. 

"I thought that by convincing myself what happened in my first year was all my fault – that by doing that, I could forget about him. But I suppose that because that's a lie, or at least somewhat a lie, it won't work. I think I need to somehow just come to terms with it, and if I do that I'll be all right. He'll disappear." She paused for a second before continuing. "Because, in truth, he _did _try to take over, and do horrible things, through me, but what counts is that it wasn't me, no matter how much I try to say it was. It was just my fault for the stupidity to think that anyone would want to listen to me, I guess."

Harry nodded silently, and then spoke. "Well, I talked to him, I would never have guessed that he was Lord Voldemort. Not for the life of me. I even saw him in the Chamber before I realized what was going on."

Ginny laughed. "You did?"

A smile cracked across Harry's face, as he recounted the story. "Yeah. I was all about rescuing him and you: 'Come on, Tom! We've got to get out of here! This is the Chamber of Secrets, and some crazy person is setting a Basilisk loose on the students!' or some such thing. He must have thought us both rather daft." Harry laughed.

Ginny joined him, giggling at the thought of the proceedings. "I guess we were both rather foolish. But there were no lasting side effects – and we were just kids."

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "Just kids."

A blurring hand reached around to grab Ginny. She saw it and gasped, turning around to see a desperate Tom fading rapidly into oblivion. Ginny stared him down, shocked, as he melted away into nothingness, and then turned back to Harry. They were silent for a few minutes.

"Well," said Ginny.

"Well," agreed Harry. "That was rather… anticlimactic. If you ask me."

Ginny laughed again. "I suppose you could say it was."

Harry pulled something out from the pocket of his robe – the Diary. "I should probably ask before I throw this into the fire…" he said.

Ginny smiled faintly, and then held out her hand. "Let me, please." Harry obliged, giving her the leather-bound book. Turning to face it, she addressed one last remark to its cover: "I can't believe you've caused me so much trouble." And then she tossed it into the flame. 

It burned, just like any ordinary book. And after all, how was it anything more?

Ginny smiled, settling back into the sofa. "We should probably go back to bed," she mumbled. Relief was washing over her – it was over, and she had made up for her stupidity in her first year. The adrenaline of facing Tom one last time was quickly wearing off and she felt herself drifting slowly to sleep. She could probably just make it upstairs, if she tried as hard as she could…

"Probably…" mumbled Harry in return. "But it's so warm here."

Ginny nodded. "I'm sure no one would mind…"

The next morning, the two were found before the now faintly glowing embers of the fire, side by side.

A/N: Wow. I finally finished a fanfic. I know it wasn't long or epic or anything – but I liked it and I hope you did too. The wait for this last chapter was much shorter than for the previous ones, just because I had already written it. Thanks to cashew and Mackie for their reviews – and for putting the story on their favorites list. I'm so glad you both liked it! Thanks to theMuse and kilohana and Venus DeOmnipotent for their earlier reviews – missed you on this last chapter, but it's been a while since I updated. Anyway, hope you liked it, and drop me a review to tell me!


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